Somedays, I hope my words mean nothing.
They are little glass figures of bunnies sniffing, and china plates my mother puts out when the better people come.
I hope me saying,
“I don’t want to get attached”
does not run about as an “I love you”,
let it be the napkin I spill my nausea into.
Don’t let it be my grandpa’s handkerchief.
These “I love you”’s are building up in my head, glasses, china plates, handkerchiefs.
These antique, vintage pieces keep stacking themselves up in my swollen breaths.
“I do not love you” runs around like the rainbows I see on acid. What a joke.
These “ifs” and “whys” and “buts” are hopping around like my glass bunny.
Poor words.